


every word i've got is foreign to me

by booksandteaandallthingslovely



Category: The Pacific - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Series, i swear it's not entirely painful it gets better at the end, it's mainly just post war eugene pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 17:03:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2858315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksandteaandallthingslovely/pseuds/booksandteaandallthingslovely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eugene stares at the empty space where Snafu had been sitting with the growing sensation that someone had cut the rope and left him to drift on the vast Pacific Ocean with no land in sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	every word i've got is foreign to me

Eugene wakes up with a start. He can’t pinpoint exactly what woke him from his dark, dreamless sleep, but the sunlight pouring through the train’s windows couldn’t have helped. He blinks, eyes bleary in the morning light, and looks around. Other passengers are waking up, drinking coffees and eating breakfast. 

His eyes catch on the chair opposite him. The realisation that it’s empty sends a jolt through Eugene, leaving him with an uncomfortable feeling in his chest that feels too close to fear, to panic, for his liking. He looks up to the luggage, looking for a duffle bag that’s no longer there, a gaping space in between his and some stranger’s luggage where the bag should be. With a sickening feeling, Eugene remembers they were to stop at New Orleans late sometime the night before.

He looks between the chair and the luggage rack, the words he’s gone he’s gone he’s gone repeating in his head like a stuck record. 

Eugene stares at the empty space where Snafu had been sitting with the growing sensation that someone had cut the rope and left him to drift on the vast Pacific Ocean with no land in sight. 

\--

A month after his return, after tearful hugs from his mother and sympathetic smiles from his father and an incident where he breaks down with a gun on his shoulder and the words “i’m sorry” on his lips, he pulls out a sheet of paper and a pen from his desk drawer and writes ‘Dear Snafu’ at the top. 

And then he stops, because is Snafu the right thing to call him in a letter? Should he perhaps call him Merriell, be more formal? The idea makes Eugene huff out a laugh. He leaves it as Snafu. 

He writes a simple ‘how are you?’ and then gets stuck again. He can’t think of what to say next. ‘I’m fine’ is a blatant lie that somehow he thinks Snafu will see through. ‘You left me’ is too harsh, too accusing. 

Still, he wants to know why. Wants to know why Snafu left without a word, left him on that train and disappeared after everything, every fucking thing that had happened, as if that was fair to Eugene, as if it was fair that Snafu could clearly move on so much easier than Eugene, who’s trapped in nightmare soaked nights and wrought out days, caught between the sorrowful looks his father gives him when he thinks he isn’t looking and the way his mother keeps saying he should do something, get a job, find a girl-

He’s been pressing the pen to the paper so hard that it’s torn through, left an inkblot on his desk. His hands are shaking. 

He puts the pen back in the drawer, and goes to crumple the paper, then on second thought, pulls out his lighter and burns it. 

\-- 

In his dreams, the mud is always present. Sucking and clawing at him, slowing his movements, trapping his limbs and dragging him down. He watches, unable to move, as his friends are killed, as Snafu is killed, right in front of him with a bayonet through the belly, wide glassy eyes staring at him, filled with accusations. Eugene can’t move, can’t save him. He’s choking on it, on the mud and blood that fills his mouth, he can’t breathe, he can’t move, he can’tseehecan’t-

He hurls himself upright, gasping in air. He sees his father’s shadow in the light that seeps under the door. 

\--

He’s eight months home when he gets the letter. 

It’s a bit crumpled and the envelope looks like it’s reused, like once it may have contained bills or something. In it is simply a scrawled ‘Sledgehammer’ and an address in New Orleans. 

He immediately starts throwing pants, a toothbrush, some shirts into his duffel bag, and calls out “I’m going to be gone for a few days, Ma, there’s someone I need to see. A friend.”

He’s on the next train to New Orleans. 

\--

He’s sitting on Snafu’s couch, in the middle of Snafu’s apartment, in the middle of New Orleans, and it all feels a little surreal, really. 

Snafu’s sitting on the rocking chair that looks like it may fall apart at any moment, just staring at him with that same, intense gaze. He’s got a funny little smirk on his mouth and Eugene has so many things he wants to say that he can’t say a damn thing at all. 

“Well, Sledgehamma’,” Snafu drawls. It’s so familiar, coming from him, yet so strange in this context. Nothing is exploding, the sounds of machine-gun fire are non-present, no one is screaming for the corpsman. 

Eugene opens his mouth, tries to come out with something normal like “how have you been?” or “nice apartment” - the latter is stretching it a little considering the odd dark stain in one of the corners and the rusty sink - but all he comes out with is “why now?” 

Snafu narrows his eyes, gives him a probing look to see if he’s finally cracked it, gone insane, lost it. “What do you mean, Sledgehamma’?” 

Eugene isn’t sure himself, but the words come tumbling out anyways. “After eight months, you just send me your address, after eight months of nothing. No letters, no calls. After you just got off the damn train, Snafu. No goodbye, nothing. You just left!” He startles himself with all that comes out of his mouth. He leaves the ‘me’ at the end of the last sentence silent. 

“Why didn’t you wake me, Shelton? Why the fuck did you just leave?” He’s getting angry now, and the grin Snafu’s now wearing is seriously not helping. 

“Did I hurt your feelings, Sledge?” Eugene didn’t come here to be mocked, didn’t come here for Snafu’s leering grin and slow, molasses-coated, acid words. 

“Fuck you, Shelton.” He spits out, and for some reason his mind conjures up the sweltering, humid, stinking night time in Okinawa, a fight long past and a boy, Hamm with two ‘m’s, long dead. He thinks this will always happen, someone will say something or do something and he’ll be back there, in the Pacific, reliving some moment or another. 

Snafu seems to sober, his smile dimming somewhat. When he speaks he laughs as though still joking, but there’s a sincere quality to his words, and, although Eugene might be imagining it, a silent apology. 

“You looked so peaceful sleeping, Sledge. Couldn’t bear to wake you up.” 

Eugene looks at Snafu and finds he isn’t angry anymore. Even in the middle of that hell, even when he was furious with the whole damn world, he was never very good at staying angry at Snafu. 

\--

Snafu shows him to a small room with a dusty mattress on the floor, and that’s where Eugene lays down and goes to sleep. 

The dreams come pretty soon after. He’s on the train again, the train home. And he wakes to see Snafu sitting across from him, smile fixed on his face, blank, dead eyes staring Eugene down. Eugene looks around, panicking, and realises he’s surrounded by Japs, but he can’t move, can’t defend himself because the mud, the foul, sucking mud is everywhere. His brain whirls, the dream confuses him but inside his subconscious it all seems so real, the terror constricting his throat, catching his scream as it tries to fly out. 

Something touches his face, and Eugene wakes to see a shadowy figure hovering over him. Without a second thought he hurls himself upwards and straight at it, throws it onto the floor and pins it down by the throat. 

A second later there are hands on his forearms and it dawns on Eugene that the shadowy figure is Snafu, goddamit, and he’s choking him. He lets go swiftly, rolls off to lie side by side with Snafu, breath rushing in and out as he stares at the darkened ceiling. 

“Fuck, Snaf,” He turns his head to peer at Snafu’s face. He can’t see much in the dim but for the whites of his eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was you.” Snafu turns his head to look right back at him, and huffs a laugh.

“S’alright, Sledgehamma,” His voice is a little bit croaky and Eugene feels guilt start to seep in. “Shouldn’t have woken you like that.” 

They lie like that for a while, silence broken only by their slowing breaths. 

Eugene can feel something inside him well up as he looks at Snafu, force itself up his throat to knock on his teeth, rattling to get out. Finally, it shakes itself free, and out comes a rush of- 

“What are we supposed to do, Snaf?” 

Snafu gives him that narrow-eyed, questioning look, but it’s all for show because Eugene knows the only person who would truly understand what he means is Snafu. 

“After everything, everything we saw and everything we did, what are we- what the hell are we supposed to do?” His voice breaks on the last word and he hates it but he can’t help it.  
Snafu’s staring at him intently, and slowly, so slowly he moves, as if trying not to startle a frightened animal, until he’s hovering over Eugene, forearms on either side of his head.

“Snafu?” It’s a sad and lonely sound - broken, almost - and Snafu leans in to press his lips to Eugene’s and Eugene fists one hand in the thin shirt Snafu wore to bed and uses the other to grip the back of Snafu’s neck. Snafu cradles the sides of Eugene’s head in his hand as they kiss, fervently and with a desperation as though the war was still going and death might rain down in bullets or shells or bayonets at any moment, and Eugene only realises he’s crying when he feels something slide down the side of his face, hot and wet. When they pull apart for air, a sob escapes him, and Snafu hushes him gently. 

Snafu doesn’t answer Eugene’s question out loud, but the way he kisses Eugene when he leans back down gives it all away. 

Eugene doesn’t know either, has no idea what they’re supposed to do with all the shit that they carry, all these memories that haunt them every hour of every day, the ghosts of dead men and stealthy, unseen figures, waiting to kill, and blood and mud and sweat. 

But maybe, he hopes to God, he can find an answer with Snafu. Maybe, if they’re very lucky, they can make sense of it all one day, and finally find some peace. 

And if they can’t, well then, this is enough for now.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at 4 am and it has only been edited by me so god knows what kind of mistakes i've made in here  
> come say hi at snafvshelton.tumblr.com :) comments and kudos highly appreciated!  
> title from 'Foreigner's God' by Hozier


End file.
